When the clocks spring forward, nobody misses that hour by Wednesday. That’s how most of a life slips: quietly, in chunks.

An hour vanishes by decree and the week closes over it without a mark. That is the uncomfortable part: losing time does not feel like losing anything. Months go the same way, a weekend at a time, and the only evidence afterwards is a vague sense that the year moved fast.

Give yourself one checkpoint this month, a note in your calendar asking what you actually did with the last four weeks. The point is not to score yourself. It is to give the time somewhere to register instead of leaving quietly.